


Not the Flu

by quetzalzotz



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cuddling, Hair stroking, Hurt/Comfort, Illya has the flu but denies it, M/M, Sick Russian Bear, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quetzalzotz/pseuds/quetzalzotz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I saw a post on Tumblr about Illya being sick but denying it, until Gaby makes him rest. But I instantly thought of Napoleon in an apron making soup and this was born. </p><p>I'm sorry in advance for any mistakes. I do not have a beta reader at this time, so feel free to point anything out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the Flu

It started with body aches. Illya woke up sore, groaning as he sat up.

“You alright there, Peril?” The man beside him asked, one eye open.

“I’m stiff. It feels like I slammed myself into a brick wall all night.”

Napoleon smirked, “I thought I was the one who slammed myself into a brick wall.” He laughed at his own double entendre. Illya just glared, a slight flush rising to his cheeks.

He would be fine. He was no stranger to aching muscles, having been a fighter for most of his life. It would pass in a few hours, and he and Napoleon had a job to do. A warm shower and hot coffee would work wonders.

\--------

Then he started to cough. Dust, he thought, or some other irritant. And was it always so drafty? Even with a sweater over his turtleneck, he felt cold. Napoleon was flipping through books, making notes. Illya kept watch. He was sure his coughing would alert someone of their presence.

“Need some water?” the American asked.

“I’m fine.”

He looked up, “you’re as white as a sheet.”

“I’m tired,” he grumbled. “Just get what we’re after and let’s go, Cowboy.”

Napoleon nodded, noting that the Russian sounded congested, more so than he had that morning.

\--------

“I think you’re sick,” Napoleon said when they got back home. Illya was curled up in a chair, still cold despite having a scalding hot shower. He had an afghan his grandmother had made for him tucked around him, and he was struggling to stay awake as the American tried to brainstorm about potential threats. 

“I am not sick,” he growled.

“Sure, why else would you pull out your security blanket?” He was trying to push the others buttons, hoping to get a reaction out of him. If Illya flipped the coffee table, for example, he probably wasn’t sick.

But Illya stayed put, jaw set hard. “It is not a security blanket; I am not a child. I’ll feel much better after I get some sleep.”

Illya didn’t feel better. His cough was still deep in his chest and he woke up multiple times in the night, nose dripping, head pounding, and still freezing despite the layers of pyjamas, sheets and blankets.

He awoke to an empty bed, feeling woozy. The clock on the side table read 11:28, but that couldn’t be right. He and Napoleon were supposed to go back to the clerk’s office and look for information. Feeling weaker than he cared to admit, he padded his way to the bathroom to get ready and find out what was going on.

But he only had more questions as he shuffled into the kitchen. Napoleon was standing over a simmering pot, shirt sleeves rolled up, with an apron on. Illya opened his mouth to talk, but a stream of loud, barking coughs came out instead. 

"Oh good, you're awake." Napoleon smiled. "Tea?"

"What time is it? The clock in the bedroom said it was almost noon." 

"It is noon. You're sick, so I got us some time off."

"I am not sick," he hacked, sniffling. 

"I took your temperature while you were asleep. You have a 100 degree fever. So you stay right there and wait for your soup to be finished." Napoleon turned back to the stove. "It'll make you feel better, Peril."

Illya scoffed, crossing his arms, but sat down at the table. 

"This is an old family recipe, it'll cure your flu."

"I don't have the flu."

The American shot him a pointed look, setting the bowl in front of him.

"For a reckless cowboy, you can certainly cook," Illya said with a smirk. 

"I'm a man of many talents," Napoleon winked. 

The American insisted Illya change back into pyjamas for the rest of the day as he cleaned up from lunch. "Go lay on the couch," he called from the kitchen. "There are some spare pillows and blankets over there."

This was very different than he was accustomed to. No one had ever taken care of him like this. Whenever he had been sick, he hid it, forcing himself through it. Now Napoleon was doing every little thing for him and Illya had no idea if he could actually sit still and recuperate. He would try though, he'd try for Napoleon more than for himself. So he grabbed a novel, and settled into the nest of pillows and blankets. 

"Comfortable?" Napoleon asked, walking into the living room. "Need anything?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine." 

With a smile, Napoleon ruffled the Russian's hair. He noticed right away how his eyes dilated, as Illya inhaled sharply, blue eyes flashing on the American. 

He likes that, Napoleon thought. He did know Illya liked to be touched, liked having physical affection like a simple pat on the shoulder or a brush of the hand. With a devious grin, he asked, "Can I sit on the couch with you?" 

"We have other chairs."

"But I want to be with you," there was a slight whine in his voice. 

Illya sighed, "fine." He sat up so his limbs weren't spilling out from the edges of the couch, letting Napoleon get comfortable. 

He kissed the sick man's cheek, "you're still very warm." He wrapped his arm around Illya's shoulder, rubbing it in comforting circles. He could feel the Russian relax. Touch like this was grounding for him, calming and soothing the storm inside of him. He leaned his head in Napoleon's shoulder and that's when he felt a hand through his hair again. 

It wasn't rough, like how Illya pulled Napoleon's curls when they were in bed, but gentle. This is how you'd pet a cat, in soft circles. He felt the pads of the American's fingers on his scalp. God he felt calm.  
Without warning, Illya shifted again, now laying with his head in Napoleon's lap, humming with contentment. His eyes were closed. He was peaceful. 

"Just rest," Napoleon muttered in Russian. 

"Your accent is terrible."

He chuckled, leaning over to kiss the side of Illya's head. 

After a few moments he realized the huge Russian in his lap was asleep again, completely at ease. Napoleon felt a huge sense of pride and love; so few people could gain Illya's trust like this.  
"Sleep well, Peril," he murmured, shutting his eyes and allowing himself to drift off.


End file.
